


Magic To Make The Sanest Man Go Mad

by TheGreenMeridian



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fix It, M/M, PWP, smut with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:44:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23461876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreenMeridian/pseuds/TheGreenMeridian
Summary: They’ve been home a month when it finally happens. He’s sitting on the settee with a book in his lap and Harry resting on his shoulder, feeling certain for the first time in over a year that no harm will befall either of them.
Relationships: John Bridgens/Harry Peglar
Comments: 26
Kudos: 99





	Magic To Make The Sanest Man Go Mad

**Author's Note:**

> First foray into these two, but John especially breaks my heart and I needed to give him some happiness.
> 
> As always, find me at thegreenmeridian.tumblr.com

They’ve been home a month when it finally happens. He’s sitting on the settee with a book in his lap and Harry resting on his shoulder, feeling certain for the first time in over a year that no harm will befall either of them. He has time to think after finishing each page, Harry taking thrice as long as he reads with him, and for once, John isn’t thinking of monsters and scurvy and fire. He can smell the soap in Harry’s hair, hear the clicks of his tongue as he quietly forms difficult words in his mouth. He can feel the warmth and lingering calluses of his hand. They haven’t been with each other since coming home, Harry not being entirely recovered and John not willing to press for it. But Christ, he wants him now. Barring a few rushed fumbles aboard Erebus, they’ve had no opportunity to take pleasure in each other for so long. Too long. He’d often brought himself off with well-worn memories alone in his cabin, and he does it now on occasion in the bedroom here they pretend is his, but it’s no substitute for another’s touch, another’s skin. Harry reaches the end of the page, and conveniently, the end of the chapter with it, and perhaps he’s having the same thoughts because he closes the book instead of turning the page and squeezes John’s hand.

“Are you tired, my love?” John asks carefully. “Would you like to retire?”

Harry sits up properly and looks at him with a shy smile, so reminiscent of the first time they made love. When Harry had taken his hand as they sat beside each other and kissed the back of it like he was something to be cherished and not a tattooed old sailor with grey in his hair and a reputation for immoral acts. 

“I’m not tired at all,” Harry says, leaning in and kissing John’s cheek. “I was rather hoping you’d take me to bed, though.”

“Were you now?”

He slips a hand into Harry’s hair, still uneven in places but barely noticeable anymore, and pulls him into a kiss. They’ve kissed often since getting home, and plenty more on the journey besides, but not like this. Not with this hunger and the anticipation for what will come next. Harry’s as eager as he is, nipping at his lips and grabbing at his shoulders, leaning so close that John finds himself having to bow his back to keep the angle right. He’d wanted this first time to be slow, a celebration of the privacy they now had as much as of Harry’s recovery, a gradual relearning of each other’s bodies. He squeezes Harry’s hips in an effort to signal just that but Henry simply slides into his lap and tangles his fingers in John’s hair.

“Wait,” he pants, pulling back. “We don’t have to rush, Harry. We have all the time in the world now.”

“I feel like I’ve waited all the time in the world to have you again. Please, John. I need it. I need you.” Harry’s hips rock forward and the evidence of that need pushes against John’s stomach. 

“Patience, sweet thing. I’ll take care of you,” he chuckles.

He moves his lips to Harry’s neck, suckling at the place behind his jaw and down the tendon until he’s blocked by the collar of Harry’s shirt. Harry’s always been sensitive here, still is if the way he arches into it and moans is anything to go by. John’s not had many partners he’s been able to take his time with like this, and none so responsive as Harry. John being his only man, the need to keep things quiet and businesslike had not infected Harry as it had so many other men with their tastes, and John still marvels at that even now. He feels fingers at his throat and lets it happen. Brings his own to Harry’s and pulls each button through its eye as carefully as if he were undressing an admiral. With Harry’s throat now bare, he tilts Harry’s chin up and kisses the mound of his Adam’s apple, the hollow of his throat. He could write sonnets about this neck. He could write sonnets about all of Harry.

Comfortable as they are with each other, they forgo waistcoats and cravats while they’re at home, and it’s easy work to have Harry’s shirt unbuttoned fully, though he still takes his time with it. Harry’s still too slim and old scars have healed ragged but he’s as beautiful as ever to John, taut nipples on ivory skin, soft brown hair on his belly. His own shirt is tugged away too and John lets the self consciousness happen, as it always does, without paying it too much mind. He’s old and grey and lived-in, but Harry’s never minded. The first time they were bare to each other, he could hardly get enough of the thick hair of John’s chest, nuzzling into it and stroking him like some great cat long after they’d finished. Harry groans now, a sound of frustration and fierce desire that John feels quite unworthy of, before Harry’s fingers brush over his nipple and drive all thought from him.

“Missed you,” Harry says, circling one with his thumb. “Missed this, missed getting to feel you. God I love you, John.”

He has no time to reply before Harry is on his feet and pulling down his trousers and drawers. The soft light from the lamps highlights him perfectly, making him look like the Greek statues John once saw in the British Museum, even considering the weight and muscle he’s lost. John’s eyes follow up his legs, lingering on his shapely thighs a moment before taking in a prick John knows almost as well as his own, standing proud and solid and making his skin ache with the need to touch. It’s all the motivation he needs to move, and John stands too to take his hand.

“Come, to bed with ye. The landlady won’t appreciate us making a mess of the settee.”

Harry grins and follows him without a care for the way his prick is bobbing between his legs with each step. John’s not sure if he was ever that at ease with himself. He lets Harry strip him of his trousers beside the bed then steps close, pulling Harry against him and groaning as their pricks collide. His eyes close in bliss at the feeling of so much skin against his own, warm and soft and alive. It’s this he’s missed as much as the sex and he decides immediately that they’ll sleep naked from now on. He steps back and feels his legs bump against the edge of the bed, their bed, and pulls Harry onto it with him, a tangle of limbs and hard pricks and mouths for a short while until he finds himself on his back with Harry seated once more in his lap. Nestled between Harry’s buttocks and unable to stop the groan at the hot dampness of it against his prick.

“Will you have me, John? I want to feel you inside again.”

“Christ, yes. Lay down, let me get you ready.”

Harry leans towards the drawer and pulls out a bottle of oil. John raises his eyebrow and Harry laughs. “I wanted to be prepared. Just in case I could persuade you I was well enough.”

“I am very much persuaded,” John says, plucking the bottle from his hand and holding it to the light.

It’s something unmarked, a soft golden colour to it that if he were feeling up for poetry, he could compare to the way Harry’s eyes look in waning sunlight. But he is, as he has always been, as much a man of base desires as he is of higher thought, and it’s not poetry on his mind as he taps Harry’s thigh to make him climb off. Immediately Harry obeys, on his back with his feet flat on the bed and his legs open, pushing a pillow beneath his hips to allow John better access. The first time they did this, John had half expected him to run, despite the weeks of other activities providing evidence that Harry wasn’t one of those men who are afraid of their own desires, and despite the fact that it was Harry who asked for it, had been asking for it for some time. Now, he feels almost as nervous. It’s been an age since he last found himself here, Harry’s naked body spread out before him, waiting for him to breach it. He’s older, more tired, more damaged. Harry, despite it all, is still so young and full of everything good in the world. John moves between his legs and uncorks the bottle to pour a little on Harry’s chest. There’s a rich nutty smell to it, and when he dips his fingers into the pool of it he’s surprised at how smooth and fluid it feels.

“This is rather finer than wool grease.”

“I got it from a man at the market in the dodgy end of Cheapside. Said it would make my girl’s skin feel like the finest Asian silks. I didn’t let on that I’d be using it to let my husband bugger me.”

The word still brought shock with it, and likely always would. It had been an impulsive thing, when Harry was near death and barely able to move. He’d asked John to come close and whispered a proposal to him, and John had accepted immediately. He’d never expected Harry to live long enough to make their own version of a marriage together, but he had and here they were, on the brink of consummation.

“Ah, it’s for massage then,” John says thoughtfully as he rubs his fingers together. “We should use it for its suggested purpose too, next time.”

With slick fingers, John traces over the seam of Harry’s sack. Harry’s sensitive here too, more than any man John has ever known, and the way he shudders and gasps at the touch is as beautiful as it’s always been. He dips lower, into the thicket of light brown hair beneath, pressing lightly for a moment before delving still lower until his fingers are between Harry’s cheeks.

“Beautiful boy,” he says, beginning to circle Harry’s entrance. “So very beautiful.”

He goes slowly at first, pushing the tip of his finger just past the first muscle and twisting it in such a way that Harry throws his head back and moans. A short withdrawal to gather more of the sensual oil and John’s finger is back there again, sliding deeper this time and gently pressing on the rings of muscles from within the centre of them until they begin to give way a little more. Harry opens easily after that, swallowing a second and a third in quick succession and writhing like a serpent all the while. When John finally curls his fingers and caresses the firm lump of pleasure inside, he’s stopped by a hand on his wrist and a few frantic repetitions of his name.

“Please, inside. Inside, I won’t last and I want you there when I finish.”

“Shh, I have you. Relax for me, my love, I’ll take care of you.”

John loves it like this, seeing Harry’s face instead of the back of his head. He’s so expressive, biting his lip as he watches John slick himself and nostrils flaring when the sizeable head of John’s prick is resting against his entrance. John stills for a moment, as much for himself as for Harry, then pushes forward, feeling almost as though he’s being drawn in. The slow sink until he’s fully hilted almost ruins him. Hot and tight around his length, the glide easier than ever with the oil and the walls of Harry’s passage clinging to every inch of him. It’s effort to keep his eyes open but worth it with every flutter of Harry’s own that he sees. He looks down at their joining and pulls out again, just to see himself breach Harry once more. He’d never truly forgotten the feeling of tight flesh stretched around him like this but a faded memory can’t possibly compare to the real thing. 

“Harry,” he gasps, dropping forward and pressing their foreheads together. “My Harry, my darling Harry.”

The realisation that he could have lost this hits hard. That he came inches close to never again experiencing feeling of being a part of another, never again feeling that he is truly known and seen and loved. Harry’s hands rove over his back in soothing strokes, gently pulling him back to the present.

“I’m here, John. We’re home, together,” Harry whispers.

John moves, rolling his hips forward, more grinding into Harry than thrusting, not quite willing to pull himself from the safety of his body. Harry groans and tilts up to meet him, his legs tightening around John’s waist and his hands coming down to grab at his arse. He realises what he wants most and rolls onto his back, pulling Harry with him and loving the surprised yelp he makes. Older, yes, but still strong. He releases Harry and watches with hunger as he sits up and settles in his lap, still full of his prick. With hands on Harry’s waist, he lets Harry find his angle and encouraging him with gentle touch to rock his hips back and forth slowly. One hand leaves Harry’s waist in favour of cupping his plump stones, already drawn up tightly in their pouch, and letting Harry’s movements roll them in his palm.

“Damn... oh, damn you John Bridgens.”

The slack grin and the way Harry’s head falls back rather take the bite from the words. It’s a sight John will never tire of, Harry so stuffed full of him and hard as granite, looking as though there was nowhere else he’d rather be. John bends his knees and plants his feet flat on the bed, allowing himself better leverage to push up into the depths of Harry’s body. He has yet to be able to truly break the habit of silence even when they have no need for it so his moans are trapped in his chest, but it doesn’t matter. Harry is vocal enough for them both, gasping and grunting and showing his pleasure with ease. 

“John, I love you,” he pants, pulling one of John’s hands from his waist and holding it tight.

John tugs Harry’s hand hard enough to make him fall forward and leans up to kiss him as his other hand takes Harry by the hip and guides him back and forth.

“Are you close, my love?” John asks. “What... Lord, what do you need?”

“Touch me, please, touch me John.”

He slides a hand between their bodies and takes Harry in hand, shuddering as he feels the answering pulse of Harry’s muscles around his prick. Harry’s slick with sweat and the steady trickle of fluid leaking from him, sliding through John’s fist with ease and clamping down on him hard as the new source of pleasure hits him.

“Enough?”

“Christ, John yes,” Harry moans, his voice tight in the way that John knows means he’s not far off.

“Let me see you, love,” he whispers, kissing along Harry’s jaw as best he can. “Reach your end on me.”

He feels Harry’s movements becoming more erratic, the rolls of his hips stuttering each time the swollen gland within him presses into John’s prick. It’s all John can do to hold back himself now. Harry is so beautiful in his pleasure, a sheen of sweat on his ivory skin and soft grunts interspersed with sharp gasps that make John ache. He is, as he always is when they make love, struck by a how utterly enamoured he is with Harry. Whether they’re fully clothed and pulling each other off silently in John’s cabin in the middle of the night or free to be bared to each other like this, there is always a moment towards the end when John feels the ache of love in his chest. He felt it the first time, when Harry’s prick was in his mouth and he had no reason to believe it’d ever happen again. He feels it now, with Harry gasping his name with every breath and clenched around him as they both teeter on the edge. 

“Close, John,” Harry says on an exhale. “Tell me you are too.”

“Yes, Harry, God yes.”

He can’t stop moving now, stroking his hands over all of Harry he can reach, kissing his neck, his shoulders, his beautiful face. Harry’s doing it too, tangling his fingers in the hair on his chest and clumsily playing with his nipple. John tightens his grip on Harry’s prick, twists his hand slightly on an upstroke and that’s all it takes for Harry to tumble over the edge, crying out his name and shuddering in his arms as he spills between them, hard enough that John feels the second streak of it hit his chin. John follows him down as muscles contract around his prick, bucking up and emptying himself with a moan barely muffled in Harry’s shoulder. It’s still pulsing through him when Harry collapses atop him and buries his face into his neck. John threads his fingers into Harry’s hair and holds him there, pressing kisses to the side of Harry’s head even as he tries to catch his breath.

“I love you, my darling,” he whispers.

His eyes feel wet, his chest hurts, actually hurts, with the relief of having Harry safe in his arms. All he can think of is how Harry’s face had looked when he’d admitted his illness, the way it had felt to hear it. Like he couldn’t breathe. Like he’d never breathe again. For a moment, he almost believes Harry is gone right there in his arms. But then Harry is sliding off him, tucking neatly between John’s arm and his body and resting his head on John’s breast.

“Waited too long for that,” Harry says sleepily. “Shall I fetch a cloth?”

“Not quite yet. I’m not ready to let go of you,” he admits.

Harry reaches up and cups his face, gently stroking his cheek and feeling the wetness that’s gathered there. “Please don’t cry, John. I made it, we both did. We’re home.”

“I can’t stop myself from thinking about it. If I’d have lost you out there–“

“But you didn’t. You didn’t lose me, John. You saved me, and we’re here together. I’ll not leave you alone, John. You wouldn’t let me promise you such a thing when I was sick, so let me promise it while I’m well. I’ll be by your side for as long as you’ll have me and not a moment less.”

“I’d have you forever if I could,” John says softly, capturing Harry’s hand and bringing it to his lips. It’s the left hand, he realises, so he presses a kiss where a ring should sit. “I’ll buy you a ring. If we’re to be husbands, we should do it properly.”

“Now we’ve consummated it, it’s only right, after all. Will you wear one for me as well?”

“With honour, my love.”

They lay in piece a while longer, and John finds himself easily drifting into sleep, despite the growing tackiness of his skin as Harry’s seed dries upon him. When he awakes, he’s been wiped clean, and Harry is where he was before, tucked under his arm and resting his head in the hair on John’s chest, alive and warm and everything John has ever desired.


End file.
